


Indulgence

by anorchidisnotaflower



Category: Fight Club (1999), Fight Club - All Media Types
Genre: Explicit Language, First Kiss, M/M, POV First Person, inspired by that one moment in the film where the Narrator fixes Tyler's tie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-28
Updated: 2016-11-28
Packaged: 2018-09-02 18:38:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8678881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anorchidisnotaflower/pseuds/anorchidisnotaflower
Summary: "I didn’t expect it the way it was given. I expected something rough, like the palms of Tyler’s hands, or forceful, like the way his fist collided with my stomach during that first fight. I expected something that was Tyler in every way I knew him, in and out."
In which the Narrator is surprised, and Tyler is amused.





	

I expected worse.

With Tyler, it was always worse. Never did he go for the mild, for the simple, for the plain, ordinary shit. With Tyler, it was always one end of an extreme: fucking Marla like his life depended on it, fighting like the world was going to end, bleeding and breathing and living like God was at his feet.

When it came to Tyler, I was always the simple one, the one with the nine-to-five office job, the one with the tie and the button-down, the one with the condo filled with Fica products that made up the sum total of my life. Held next to Tyler, I was a snuffed matchstick.

I did expect him to be the one that did it first. My thoughts about him, however brief they were, were held firmly in my mind, where he couldn’t touch them: the brief flashes of lean muscles, the glimpse of teeth, the brush of a finger against mine. These were tantamount to pornography, and were thus unattainable, unable to be acted upon. These would ruin us. 

Ruin me.

I didn’t expect it the way it was given. I expected something rough, like the palms of Tyler’s hands, or forceful, like the way his fist collided with my stomach during that first fight. I expected something that was Tyler in every way I knew him, in and out.

I didn’t expect... _it_.

I was adjusting his bow tie before work, giving him the usual once-over before he headed out to commit more righteous acts of well-deserved anarchy on the rich and unaware. My fingers hovered a bit too long above his tie, lingered a bit too long on the lapels of his shirt. I could feel his eyes on me, wondering in that out-loud and silent way Tyler does.

When I glanced up at him, fingers still stuck, Tyler smirked at me.

“What’re you doing, psycho boy,” he asked, teeth glinting somehow, improbably.

I told him I was just fixing his tie.

He smiled, then – something real in it, something genuine.

Then he leaned forward, pressing his lips to mine in what could be called the chastest thing I’ve ever witnessed. And it was from _Tyler_.

He pulled away after no time at all, that smirk still stuck to his face in the same way my fingers were stuck to his lapels. I blinked, maybe.

I tried to ask him what the hell that was, but I couldn’t quite make the words form with him looking at me like that.

So he pulled away, sticking a cigarette between his teeth and walking out the door, whistling. _Whistling_ , despite the cigarette in his mouth.

My fingers still hovered like they could bring him back.

I stood there for longer than I should have. Later, when he came back, he did it again. A greeting.

“Evening, lover boy,” he smiled.

I blinked again, more rapidly.

He quirked an eyebrow. “What?”

I asked him what the hell all this was. I tried to pretend my voice didn’t waver.

He leaned in, his breath ghosting like smoke on my skin. I forgot what it was like to be without Tyler, for a moment, remembering only when he was there, slipping so close we became almost one.

“Your move.”

Eventually we ended up on the mattress, as one does, but when we were finished, he pressed one of those chaste kisses to my forehead, my cheek, my lips, again.

I asked him what those were.

“What what are?”

I asked him what those kisses were, why he kept doing it.

He snorted. “Call it a form of anarchy.”

I did.

He kept it up, now: whenever one of us left the room, left the house, sat next to the other, he leaned over and I accepted it. Sometimes, I tried to respond, give out my own, but he placed a finger on my lips.

“Not for me.”

So I didn’t.


End file.
